


don't fall in love with the masthead

by ghostwit



Category: One Piece
Genre: Crying during sex in an (un)sexy way., Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Sadism, M/M, Not a lot of comfort here either lawl sorry. No resolution for grief., Not really porn. Like 900 words of sad foreplay., Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-23 20:58:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21326590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwit/pseuds/ghostwit
Summary: (Moan, like mine, but not my own. Lay you down in the seabed.)Marco can't tell if being lost alone is better than being lost together.(All he knows is that he is a doctor, and a doctor heals.)Sabo, with a fierce certainty, knows Marco can pull him no lower than he already is.(He can't tell if he wants to find out how low he is.)
Relationships: Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco/Sabo
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	don't fall in love with the masthead

“Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck. _ ” Sabo’s whole body convulses with the stuttered syllables, neck quivering and flame racing up his bare arms in jerky stop-starts,  _ hot-hot-hot  _ on the desensitized skin of his scars, his elbows pulled in with each jolt to put tight pressure on his ribs. He’s unaccustomed to the heat, hardly-there and yet so tangible he feels like he can broach it, crack through it with a curled hand like a wall of concrete (break it down to feel it on his  _ skin _ , so he can finally burn in it). Marco stops him, flame cool and blue against the transient shape of his body, passing over the prickling heat of irritation spiking along his back, and he growls into the phoenix fire, eyes frantic and unfocused. 

Marco’s own eyes are far and narrow, as if searching for something in the far horizon; the man in his arms is stranded, a splash of skin against the passive hatred of the sea, body lithe and languid over his, his,  _ his  _ piece of driftwood, and Marco, unmoored himself, aches to reach him. Marco brings a hand to the other’s mouth, wing still wrapping the span of the other’s shoulders in a curtain of cool flame, watches the way peacock blue gets swallowed by unyielding black when his eyes find them, his lips parting with the barest hint of pressure from Marco. He slides two fingers easily into the heat offered with a deliberate roll of the wrist, and Sabo wastes no time in using his tongue (obscene and firm, Marco yields easily) to spread them in his mouth, forcing the tip to press flush to the joint of the fingers, the V of the doctor’s hand laying flat over the ridges of his teeth. Marco shudders, looks down at the gape of the revolutionary’s mouth through hooded eyes, and Sabo’s pliant mouth goes wicked sharp with a grin. 

He bites down, hard, relishes in the biting lick of flame along the roof of his mouth, tempering his soft palate, the groan Marco gives him as his skin splits under the pressure of his molars with a resounding crack. It’s barely audible over the crackle of flame, but it’s enough to make Sabo smile, the taste of blood and almost-heat reaching somewhere Marco’s consoling hand and humble tongue cannot. Again, Marco gives, strokes crooked fingers along his teeth to meet the tip of Sabo’s tongue, and he moans for him, open and rough-edged with tears, whimpering when the taste of iron ebbs and the doctor’s fingers move to trace the line of his jaw. His mouth is full again, he’s hardly aware, but Marco’s kiss is obliging under him, so soft that he seeks the hard edge of his teeth again, grazing them with his tongue. Sabo jerks into the kiss, again, another flash of fire coming up on heated skin and his gut wrenching with sudden nausea, enough to make him cry out into the older man’s mouth, to make the other man’s form go hard with muscle and sinew, sealing them together. 

“Let me in,” he croaks, worming a hand between the two of them to dig into the center of Marco’s tattoo. Searching for flaws, cracks in the foundation, the only thing his clawed hands are accustomed to. Marco breathes deep, bares the broad expanse chest to let the younger’s fingers scrabble, keratin turning skin to flame with frantic scraping. 

“I know,” he says, and Sabo wails again, quiet and dragging right along the edge of his throat’s capacity, raw and tittering with hoarseness. The incoherency doesn't register. The phrase reminds Marco of consoling a beast, rabid and unthinking, petting it and cooing nothing in particular, and it makes his gut spasm with hot guilt. Sabo busies himself with the skin at Marco’s neck, shielding from unshed tears: he wonders, distantly, who is hiding more, with the way Marco tilts his chin to face away from Sabo, heavenward, his lines of the cartilage of his larynx creating severe ridges for Sabo to lathe over with his tongue. 

“Looking for someone up there?” Marco hiccups, a rumbling growl starting deep in his chest, but his grip, a posture of hard-wrought grief, over Sabo doesn’t falter. Sabo aches for talon, aches for the clean split of skin instead of the muffled roar of stoked embers, cannot get either, cannot even grasp the source of his longing as he pulls the doctor’s head down again. The sight of bloody nails flecked with scraps of indigo skin makes his eye (the clean one, the  _ good _ one, the one that would still cry for his brother) twitch, but he continues pulling with a single-minded, animal intensity. He braces himself against the veritable wall of Marco’s arms, pushing them against the doctor's desk, going firm and heavy with a clench of his shoulder blades, and lifts his legs to wrap around the older man’s waist. He ruts up, back arched in a lethal line of trained seduction, self-control, lets Marco see his blotchy face in full light and the sensual line of motion that follows from the drop of his jaw across the swell of his exposed pectorals and down his spine to the roll of his hips. The doctor lets a breath drop from his throat like a weight, and the revolutionary's claws drag him to follow. 

Down, down, down. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a phucking frenzy, lol. I think about these two a loooooooot. So much shit here. One day I'll learn to write something with plot, lol. Forgive the inconsistent symbolism in this, by the way, I wrote this in a couple sessions so I lost/warped a lot of my original image for the piece. 
> 
> Please leave a comment with any thoughts, if it's not too much trouble!  
Thenks fer yer patronage, aye. 
> 
> hazeism.tumblr.com


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